That Inexplicable Rush of Optimism

7.30. I wake with the sun bright through the winter window and an inexplicable rush of optimism.

8.10. Coffee opposite my flat in Calle Diputacion, Barcelona, with Nuria, 23, hair dyed henna red, thin as a knife with a wide leather belt, skinny jeans and a sky blue leather jacket. We speak Spanish. She corrects me, waving her finger. That evening, she is meeting two old university friends from Gerona and invites me to join them.

9.00. Three hours teaching English to a class of five computer geeks at their company on Diagonal, the busy boulevard that leads from the city to the airport. Lunch with another teacher, Ingrid, a Norwegian girl, who also teaches English, speaks perfect Spanish and makes me want to scream.

1.30. Lunch at home, cold pasta from yesterday, salad with Manchega cheese and a cup of Earl Grey. Then, three hours on the laptop correcting, massaging and re-writing a short story, the sixth in a collection still without a title.

5.00. Jog to the harbour, wave at the statue of Cristobal Colón – or Columbus as some people say – and back again. Read the El País, fall into a restless sleep over the pages and dream that I am standing on the platform in an empty Metro station. I can hear the sound of a train whistling through a distant tunnel, but it never arrives. I wake with that morning rush of optimism stalled and take a shower.

Sexy Rush of Optimism 

8.00. Meet Nuria at the Cafe Zurich, where George Orwell used to stretch out his long legs during the Spanish Civil War waiting for pessimism to turn to optimism. Which never happened.

8.01. Nuria is with her old uni friends Eloy and Ramon, 23, like her, wavy dark hair, dark liquidy eyes and a tee-shirt with the face of Penelope Cruz on the front. He tells me he is not a Catalanista and independence would ruin Spain. He believes in unity and open borders to all refugees. We drink beers from the barrel, eat tapas, drink more beers. I tell Ramon about Orwell and I’m impressed when tell me he’s read Homage to Catalonia. Everyone should.

10.25. We go to another bar to eat chocolate crêpes. Nuria tells Ramon I am a melancholic and he laughs. He says melancholia is the disease of the middle-classes. The workers, he says, slapping the table, don’t have time to be melancholic. This sounds original and I like his passion. His expression changes as he looks back across the table as if he has only just noticed me.

11.15. Ramon had planned to stay with Nuria that night but it would have been awkward for Eloy. Nuria and Eloy had something that had broken and they were trying to fix it again. I walk with Ramon down Diputacion to my flat on the third floor, a long narrow arrangement of rooms leading from a tiny kitchen to a tiny living room to a tiny bedroom with a balcony overlooking a garden with a large fig tree whose desert perfume pervades the flat, even in winter.

11.33. Ramon is 23. I am 30. But he has an old soul and a nice kiss. The age difference is meaningless but sexy, sensual, invigorating. We make love this way and that way with the moon’s pale light warming the walls and Penelope Cruz watching from where Ramon has dropped his tee-shirt on the back of a chair.

7.30. I wake with the sun bright through the winter window, an arm around my shoulders and an inexplicable rush of optimism.

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